


Cover Up

by DearSeptember



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Cats, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Emotional Tension, cats everywhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:54:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSeptember/pseuds/DearSeptember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There were no windows on the weather-worn door. Just the word "tattoos" in chipping red paint. Before he had time to regret it he went inside, leaving with more than he bargained for. </p><p>A tattoo/floral shop AU inspired from a tumblr post.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a huge shout out to TCRegan for all her help these past few weeks. Without her this story never would have gotten off the ground. Also a thank you to all the Anders/Karl shippers out there. I hope this does them some justice (no pun intended).

The place was a hole in the wall. A brick-fronted shop wedged between a coffeehouse and a used bookstore. There were no windows on the weather worn door, just the word “tattoos” painted on in chipping red colour. He pulled out a crumpled post-it note from his pocket, briefly entertaining the notion that the place was a mafia hideout and he was about to stumble into in on a deal gone wrong. But no, his glaze flicked up toward the numbers above the door. They were peeling off at the corners, but it was definitely the right address. He sucked in a deep breath, swearing silently that if he drove halfway across town for a stupid prank he would _kill_ Nate when he got home.

               The door stuck when he tried to open it, announcing his presence with a bell when he finally did. He blinked a few times, deciding looks could be deceiving. The room was far larger on the inside, a glass counter filled with jewelry running the expanse of the lobby. Atop it were an assortment of albums, an antique cash register at its end. The sparse bits of wall that weren’t covered in paintings and photographs were painted a deep burgundy that reminded him of the library at school—one of the few places he could stand in that place. Pulling the door shut with a ‘squeak’ behind him he took another step inside. His fingers brushed along a leather chair that was probably made to look more worn than it actually was. Incense permeated the air, mingled with the scent of—what was that?—clove? Tobacco? He was still trying to decide when something brushed against his leg.

               “Mrow?”

               The cat was striped, missing most of its left ear. It looked up at Anders as though he had a treat in his hand, though by the looks of things someone had given it plenty of treats already. He bent down to scratch it behind the ears, earning another happy “mrow!” in the process. Just as he had begun to gather the cat in his arms someone called out from behind a beaded curtain in the corner of the room.

               “If you’re trying to eat the plants again I won’t feed you for a week!”

               The cat jumped from Anders’ arms with what he could only describe as an indignant huff, retreating out of sight behind the counter. Anders glanced to a rather abused tree near the door, turning when he heard a light rustling.

               “I look for a mouser, I get a vegetarian. My luck.”  

               The man stepped out from the curtain, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He opened one of them to acknowledge Anders before crossing the room  to stand in front of him.  

               “Sorry,” he said, “I hope he wasn’t bothering you.”

               “Not at all!” Anders found himself saying a little too quickly. “I mean…I like cats.”

               Karl Thekla was the last thing Anders had expected. He recognized him from the website, though the pictures there must have been taken several years earlier. He guessed the man was in his early thirties now, but already silver was beginning to streak the light brown of his hair and beard. And oh, that _beard._ Anders had always hated the overgrown excuse for facial hair the Templars had in school. Hated the way it hung shapelessly from their chins; how it brushed the back of his neck when they got too close to him. They got too close too often. But Karl’s was different; well kempt. Precisely shaped to define the sharp line of his jaw. Suddenly Anders wanted nothing more than to run his fingers through it.

               He didn’t, of course.

               “We talked on the phone earlier, I’m Anders.” He extended his hand. Karl’s fingers wrapped around his palm far more gently than he would have expected. Beneath the wool of his sweater Anders could see a sleeve of ink starting at his wrists. The words “yours truly” in cursive across his knuckles.

               “You sure you’re old enough to be here?” his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled.

               “I’m 22,” Anders frowned, fishing his ID from his coat pocket. “Here.”

               He watched as Karl glanced it over, chewing at the inside of his lip. He couldn’t help but notice how _blue_ the man’s eyes were. The same color as the sky on a cloudless day. Karl must have noticed him noticing, though, because when he looked up he winked.

               “Just means you’re going to look even better when you’re older,” he said. Anders felt his face grow hot. “What do you want done?”

               He unzipped his coat, stammering for words. What he wanted was illegal. He had known it before he even walked in the door. “Undermining the Chantry” they would call it. Mages were marked for a reason; they were dangerous. They were told that from the moment they were thrown into the Circle. It was seared into their brain every day for six years (give or take, but almost always it was take), and in case they forgot the message was branded into their skin. There was no hiding it. To erase such a mark—let alone alter it—would be a crime worthy of prison. Even asking someone to do so was dangerous, but he didn’t care. If he had to _burn_ it from his back himself he would.

               He tugged his shirt up over his head, gooseflesh instantly prickling the skin there.

               “Tsk, getting naked already and I haven’t even bought you dinner yet,” Karl mused. Anders would have laughed had he not felt so vulnerable. Somewhere in his head a voice asked why he _cared_  what this man he had known—what?—fifteen minutes thought of him. The worst he could do would be _nothing_ and if that were the case…well, if that were the case he’d be back where he started.

               “I…” he began, throat dry. Words died on his tongue, though it was soon clear he didn’t need to say anything. Karl made a soft noise, fingertips at his back gently tracing the raised tissue there.

               “It’s a shame that they do this,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. “Such a beautiful canvas. Ruined.”

               “I know…I know what happens if you change it,” Anders said, “But…I need it gone. I heard you can help.”

               “Who’d you hear that from?”

               “I…A friend. So can you?” He pulled his shirt back on, steeling himself for the reply.

               “Come back in a week, sweetheart. We’ll see what I can do.”

.   

                


	2. Chapter 2

               Anders was almost certain that the minute hand on the clock had stopped twice. Palms to his cheeks and elbows on his knees he watched, groaning when it picked up again at a snail’s pace. He opened the shop that morning, determined to complete even the most mundane tasks so long as it kept him busy. After he dusted the shelves, filled out two dozen orders for a dozen roses, and cut what must have been a thousand yards of ribbon he found himself slumped behind the glass-top counter. He made a face at the clock. Fifteen minutes and he was free. The only thing he would have to do was keep from sprinting out the door the moment his replacement arrived.

               All of this was dependent on whether or not his coworker bothered to show up on time. He flicked his gaze about the store before pulling his phone from his pocket. _You on your way?_ He typed. His finger lingered on the “send” button, finally pressing it with the knowledge that she would probably respond with something like “I work today?” For the longest time he had wondered about her consistent tardiness, usually an hour or more. The answer finally presented itself when she and their boss showed up in the same car one morning.

               He shrugged his shoulders in hopes that it would eliminate the tingling of the brand between them. It was still impossible to imagine that soon it might be gone. That, or he would find himself in a prison cell for rebellion against the Chantry or some such nonsense. He tried to tell himself that was all it was; nonsense. The vibrating of his phone against the counter pulled him away from any thoughts that it could be otherwise. The message said “here” and he looked up just in time to see Isabela pull the headphones from her ears. She kicked her boots clean of snow against the rug, grinning when she caught Anders watching her.

               “See something you like?”

               “Yeah, you being here on time. What gives?”       

               She scoffed, wrangling her hair into a ponytail. “I’m _always_ on time. Usually. Why are you in such a hurry anyway?”

               He shoved his arms into the sleeves of his coat, pulling out a hat from his backpack. “Date.” He mumbled against the neck of his sweater without really thinking as he bent to tie his boots.

               “Oh? Did you and Nate finally make up?”

               “Kind of hard to do when you’re not together in the first place.”

               His relationship with his roommate was something he tried not to think about too hard. They had met when Anders answered an ad for an apartment he placed online. The two barely lived together a week when Anders tried to convince Nate to hop into bed with him. Young, and eager to piss off his parents Nate agreed. The occasional tumbles continued for almost three years, but it was never what Anders would call a real relationship. He asked once—drunk and tangled together on the sofa—if it could be. Nate said it was a bad idea; the sex stopped after that. Tensions between them were awkward for a bit, but after some time had passed Anders figured it was probably for the best.

               “Is he still with that twig?”

               “Velanna?”

               “That’s the one.”

               “She dumped him again last week, but she was there this morning. So yeah. I think.”

               “You’ll find someone, sweetie.” She winked. “And if you don’t you can always call me.”

               He held back a small laugh as she turned to answer the phone.

\---

               He dropped his fare into the plastic box at the front of the bus as slowly as possible, nearly falling when the driver decided to pull away before he had the chance to grab his ticket. Shoving it deep into his pocket he took a seat next to the person who looked _least_ likely to mug him, backpack clutched to his chest nonetheless. He pulled a pair of tangled headphones from the front pouch. There was nothing to plug them into, and one of them didn’t work even if there were, but if there was one thing he had learned in five years of taking public transportation it was that it was better to travel _with_ headphones than without. He pushed the buds into his ears, settling against the back of the seat as the bus stopped to let on more passengers.

               This was it. In less than an hour a needle would be buried in his skin, unraveling years spent in the Circle. It was nauseatingly symbolic he thought nearly rolling his eyes. It sounded stupid if he said it out loud. Maybe Karl could cover the brand so well that no one would even know it was there; no one would know what he was at first glance. Even so there were records. He would never be able to truly hide his status. The Chantry would make sure of that. Truth be told, it wasn’t about hiding. Wanting a normal life. Anders had never been ashamed of being a mage despite how often he was told he should be. He wanted the brand gone because it wasn’t his decision to put it there. _They_ had caused him that pain, but what was left in its place would be _his_ pain to choose.

               Soon, though, the gnawing feeling that this could all go horribly wrong returned. He didn’t _know_ Karl outside of speaking to him for a few minutes, and the way he had agreed so easily to cover the brand was suspicious. Anders swallowed, closing his eyes. How did he know Karl wouldn’t turn him over to the Templars the minute he walked in the door? Worse; how did he know the man wasn’t a Templar himself?

                Panic began to set in, the air suddenly feeling all too heavy. It probably happened all the time. Mages trying to hide what they were, going to some sympathetic artist to do so. Only that “artist” really worked for the Chantry, paid to make sure no one tried to cheat the system. He would be turned in. Imprisoned. Karl would probably get paid for his efforts to stop a dangerous criminal. Sure he would be sick, Anders stood, fingers all but flying to the cable near the window. He tugged it, and the bus lurched to a stop one street down. The trembling in his legs only grew worse as he departed, thanking the driver on his way off.

                The frigid wind of a Fereldan winter bit at his skin as he walked. He pulled his scarf up over his nose, immediately regretting his decision to wander around aimlessly in an unfamiliar part of town. Stopping in the alcove of a shop front he took a moment to think of his next move. He had already taken the bus this far; had already resolved to be rid of the brand between his shoulders. Going back now would leave him right where he started. He tugged his hat further down his ears, beginning to walk again. What reason would Nate have for setting him up anyway? Well, there was that time he had sent him to a known prostitute’s house as a joke. But Nate had paid him back by giving her Anders’ phone number. The memory brought a smile to his lips, easing the churning of his stomach.

               He rounded a corner, the street becoming more recognizable the closer he got. He forced himself to take deep, even breaths despite the stinging the air brought to his lungs. Karl had his number. He had called the shop twice before going there. If he were really a mage hunter the Templars would have been at his door by now. The Chantry wouldn’t hesitate to check if he even _was_ a mage. That, and… there was something about the man Anders couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was the way he had spoken so comfortably. The gentle smile behind all that ink. Whatever the reason, he found himself trusting Karl. And as he stood in front of the weathered shop door, staring at that chipping red sign, he prayed that that trust wouldn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

 

 

              


	3. Chapter 3

               He vaguely recognized the song floating through the speakers. A quiet melody on an acoustic guitar that greeted him as he walked through the door. It mingled with the familiar scent of incense, beneath it the lingering aroma of sandalwood. He shook off his boots before walking to the worn leather sofa where the same striped cat lay curled up on a pillow. It meowed when he scratched it behind its good ear, wasting no time on crawling into Anders’ lap. Before he had a chance to protest, he was trapped. Thankfully he didn’t have to wait long to be rescued.

               “Oh!” A girl looked up from behind the counter, nearly tripping as she made her way to the front of the store. “Sorry about Mr. Wiggums. He tends to do…that.” She said, pointing at the cat who was now gnawing happily at the side of Anders’ hand. She unhooked his claws from the fabric of his sweater, clutching the feline—who was nearly the size of her torso—to her chest.

               “I’m Merrill.”

               The girl—Merrill—looked to be about Anders’ age, maybe a few years younger. Wide green eyes lined in a reddish brown, short hair tucked beneath a woolen hat. She reminded him of a deer; ready to run if he moved too suddenly. Pretty, but fragile. Perhaps her most distinguishing feature, however, were the faint lines of ink tracing the planes of her face. He wondered briefly if Karl had put them there, deciding by the sudden twisting in his stomach that he hope that was not the case. Trying to bury the feeling he cleared his throat.

               “Is Karl here?” He asked.

               “He said someone might be in for him tonight.” She readjusted the cat in her arms, setting him down with a light ‘thud’ when he tried to wriggle free. “He should be back in a few minutes, just went to get a cup of coffee. Would you…would you like something to drink? We’ve got…water.”

               Anders shook his head.

               “What kind of name is Mr. Wiggums anyway?” he asked, hoping to fill the silence.

               “A very good name for a cat.”

               He turned to see Karl walk through the front door, a gust of wind following him into the room. He shook the snow from his hair, two paper cups clutched in his gloved hands. Merrill stood to grab one, and Anders couldn’t help but notice the quirk of her lips as she did. He stared at his feet, listening as Karl told her she was free to go for the night. With a small nod in Anders’ direction she did.

               “Sorry about that.” Karl said. “If I’d have known you were coming this early I would have brought you something.”

               Anders watched as the other man took a sip, tongue darting out from the corner of his mouth to catch a stray drop of coffee. He mimicked the action subconsciously. Karl set the cup down on a stood behind the glass countertop, turning back to him with a knuckle to his lips.

               “How would you feel about letting me take some artistic liberty here?”

               “I mean, as long as you don’t draw a dick on me.” Anders cracked a smile, and Karl shook his head.

               “What about a sun?”

               “But it’s already—.”

               “This one will be different; better,” He smiled, “Promise. So what do you say, can I surprise you?”

               “Alright.”

               “Alright.”

\---

               Anders winced as Karl went over the same area for what felt like the hundredth time. He asked twice if Anders needed a break, finally relenting when the younger man insisted that he would tell him if he did. The pain wasn’t like anything Anders could describe. It burned; like putting a blown out match to the skin. But it also tickled, and talking was all he could do from reaching back to brush the sensation away.

               “What’s the hardest tattoo you’ve ever had to do?” He asked. Karl paused to wipe his back with a towel.

               “My first one.” He said with a snort. Anders rolled his eyes.

               “Okay, what was the first tattoo you got then?”

               “I…” He began quietly, “Andraste’s Grace.”

               “Oh. That seems…well.” He didn’t quite know what to say. It wasn’t as though Karl was covered in skulls or flaming Genlocks—on the contrary from what Anders could see every piece was well thought out and tasteful—but the idea of Chantry named flowers didn’t fit him. 

               “You asked for my first tattoo, not my favorite.”

               “Okay, what’s your favorite?”

               The smile returned to his voice when he replied, leaning in closer. Anders could smell the faint scent of cinnamon on his breath as he talked.

               “My great grandfather served in a war in the Anderfels. Part of a special unit that was basically a suicide squad,” He said. “I don’t think he expected to meet my grandmother when he signed up. They wrote letters back and forth while he was enlisted. My mom saved them. In the last one…well…I think he knew he wasn’t coming back. It just said ‘be good, love you always.’ Got it on my wrist two years ago.” 

               “That’s,” Anders started to say, thinking of his own family. He remembered his mother mentioning nobility at some point in time in their bloodline, but didn’t know anything about his father’s side. When the man wasn’t passed out drunk he made it painfully clear how he felt about having a mage for a son. Anders returned home for less than a year after graduation before realizing that he _had_ to get out.

               “Your family seems pretty interesting.”

               “Oh they can be!” Karl slid back in his chair. “Just about done, love.”

               “You didn’t say how much this would cost.”

               “Just…let’s see what you think of it first. We can work something out later,” he winked. “This isn’t exactly legal so I don’t really have a price point to go by. There.”

               Anders wanted to all but bolt upright, but a hand on his lower back kept him down.

               “Slow now; don’t pass out on me.” Karl said. Anders nodded, beginning to sit up once the hand was gone again. “That’s it, slowly.”

               His feet tingled as they hit the floor, but he scarcely felt it as he crossed to a wood framed mirror near the curtain. What he saw made his breath catch.

               It was still a sun, but all traces of Chantry influence on it had been erased. Karl handed him a smaller mirror for a better look. He took a step backward. In the stead of the raised pink tissue were the twists and turns of black ink. Each line was even; precise. Anders’ hands shook as he stared, wide eyed at a loss for words. For the second time since they met Karl provided him with them.

               “Being a mage is nothing you should have to hide.” He said. “That’s why I wanted to keep the sun. But you’re more than just a mage. Something a little more…intricate seemed fitting.”

               Anders licked his lips, trying to blink back the prickling at the backs of his eyes. He set the mirror down on the chair, turning to Karl.

               “Don’t keep me in suspense now; what do you think?”

               “It’s perfect.” He said without hesitation. “ _Thank you_. I mean it. Thank you so much.”

               “Don’t mention it, love.” But he could see in the curve of Karl’s lips that he was pleased. “Come here, let’s get you bandaged up.”

\---

               Anders was fairly certain that Karl had charged him far less than what the work was worth, insisting against being given a tip as well. He stuck it beneath a potted plant when Karl wasn’t looking, pulling on his coat with some difficulty.

               “Here.” He handed Anders a folded pieced of paper. “Aftercare stuff. Just in case you forget. The number for the shop is there too. Any more questions before you go?”

               Anders shook his head, taking a step closer to the counter.

               “No. Just. Thank you again.” He said, nearly mistaking a handshake for a hug. He caught himself quickly, though not quickly enough, hearing Karl let out a breathy laugh. The man rested a hand on his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze.

               “You’re very welcome, Anders.”

               The gesture lingered just a little too long, interrupted when Mr. Wiggums brushed against their legs. Anders scratched the cat beneath its chin, turning to leave. As he did he spared a backwards glance, swearing that Karl winked at him. Then again, he decided as he was greeted with a gust of that biting winter air, he was always good at imagining things.

              

 

 

                

              

              

              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading so far, and again thank you to TCRegan for helping me edit this monster of a story. I hope to update weekly from now on. 
> 
> Edit:I have two tattoos. I tried to keep Anders' experience similar to mine, but the experience/pain obviously varies from person to person. Just in case someone out there is thinking "that's not what it's like at all!"


	4. Chapter 4

               "Andraste's tits, Nate, do you know how long I've been-"

               "Nathaniel is in the shower." _Great. Her._ With an audible sigh he rubbed the bridge of his nose between rapidly numbing fingers. "What do you want?"

               "Please," he began with as much emphasis on the word as he could muster. "I need you to tell him that-"

               "No."

               "I need a ride home."

               "Tell him yourself."

               "But you're on his-"

               "Nathaniel isn't driving you anywhere, Anders. This is _our_ night together. So unless you're bleeding on the sidewalk-"

               "I might be." The snorted laugh escaped him before he could help himself. He could almost hear her eyes rolling back in their sockets on the other line. "Wait-"

               "I could only be so lucky."

               There was a 'click' and she was gone.

               He exhaled a cloud of steam, shoulders dropping. "Well. So much for that."

               The bus schedule was faded behind a foggy piece of plastic, but he could still make out the worn print. The next stop was in a half hour, which almost certainly meant an hour and a half. Slumping against the snow covered bench he pulled out his phone again. _Remind me to send Velanna some flowers_. He hit 'send' with the secret hope that she would be the first to read it. The best he could do now was try not to freeze to death before the bus came.

\---

               Anders found himself huddled beneath the lamppost, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Barely half past eight and already the streets were empty, save for the homeless man who asked him for change for the increasingly non-existent bus. Anders handed him a handful of coins, mostly because there was a very real risk of being stabbed if he didn't. Though he supposed if that were the case he would at least have an excuse to call Nate again to say that he was, indeed, bleeding on the sidewalk and needed a ride. The man only gave him a slurred "thanks" before stumbling down the alleyway.

               As he pondered beginning to at least walk to a more familiar part of town he saw headlights loom over the horizon, illuminating the clumped snowflakes in their wake. He squinted. A black two-door slowed down as it approached him, its window down.

               "Now I feel bad for letting you spend your bus fare on a tattoo."

               Karl.

               He grinned from the driver's seat, and Anders tried to hold back a groan. Next to maybe Velanna, his artist was the last person he wanted to let see him like this. "I didn't spend my…I mean…is there a cab I could catch around here?"

               "You could, but they'll charge you your left ear at this hour. I'm serious."

               Anders ran his tongue across the cracked corner of his lip.

               "Oh."

               "I was just about to get something to eat. What do you say I give you a ride, kid?" He heard the car doors unlock, remembering some warning a teacher had given to him about getting into cars with strangers.

               "I don't want to trouble you."

               "No trouble at all, promise."

               Anders looked down the still empty street before tugging open the car door.

               "Got any candy in there, old man?" He laughed.

               "Only if you're good."

               The interior of the car was filled with the aroma of sandalwood, though as Anders reached to buckle his seatbelt he noticed that the smell was coming from Karl. He had to stop himself from leaning in closer.

               "And what if I'm bad?" He said with eyes trained on Karl whose lips parted in a half-grin beneath his beard.

               "Bad boys get spanked." He said.

               Something in Anders told him to quit while he was ahead, but his mind always did have trouble catching up with his mouth. It had been months since he flirted so openly with someone. The midnight texts to Isabela hardly counted. He had always liked to test his boundaries, so it was only with a little surprise that he found himself saying,

               "What if I want you to spank me?"

               "Then I'll take you back to my place right now; fuck dinner."

               The answer was a little too straightforward; too unexpected. _Maker, was he serious?_ He thought, finding himself looking at his hands while he tried to fight the embarrassing knot in his stomach that seemed to sink straight to his groin.

               Karl must have noticed him because he cleared his throat, reaching to turn up the music. It was the same folkish tune that he'd heard at the shop earlier. Karl turned to him with a sheepish grin. "Sorry," he finally muttered. "I got carried away."

               The car pulled into the orange and red drive-thru of a burger joint, stopping at the speaker.

               "Not every day a handsome young man strokes your ego is all."

               The twisting in Anders' gut subsided. "It's okay. I came on a bit strong."

               "For the record I-"

               Whatever Karl was about to say next was cut short by a static buzz from outside. He rolled down the window, the automated voice being cut short by a significantly less friendly,

               "What can I get for you tonight?"

               "Number four with fries and a Coke, please. Do you want anything?"

               "A Coke?"

               "Another Coke."

               "Anything else?"

               "No, thank you."

               "Five thirty-five at the window."

\---          

               "So," Karl reached into the bag, pulling out a handful of fries. "Where am I taking you?"

               "Do you know where the Gnawed Noble is?"

               He nodded. "Oh do I, sweetheart."

               "My place is just a couple blocks away."

               "Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes." Karl said. "Have some fries if you want."

               Anders was becoming increasingly thankful that Karl had found him at the bus stop; fingers and toes completely thawed. He reached into the bag for another fry, chasing it down with a sip of Coke as Karl talked about how he had moved to Ferelden from the Anderfels a little less than ten years ago. His mother had been an artist, and his father left the picture when he was eleven.

               "She struggled to get everything we had, but she never complained about it." He explained. "I told her I wanted to go to art school; she took a second job to help pay the tuition."

               "She sounds wonderful," Anders said wistfully.

               "She was." The smile fell from Karl's lips. He paused for a moment, scratching just beneath his jaw. "But look at me; now I'm rambling. You don't really want to hear about this shit."

               "I don't mind!" In truth, it was better than talking about his own parents—a fall down drunk of a father, and a mother who would never leave the man. He hadn't heard from either of them since he moved in with Nate. Sometimes he thought it was better that way. "I mean...I like listening to-"

               His phone buzzed in his pocket. With a quick apology he answered.

               "Velanna said you called?"

               "I could be dead right now for all you know."

               "But you're not."

               "Too bad for you. Now Velanna can't have my bedroom. Did I ever tell you she's a massive…" Anders flicked his gaze to Karl, who looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "She's not very nice."

               "Funny, she says the same thing about you." There was a muffled 'hey!' in the background, followed by "He's not talking about you."

               "Yes I am."

               "Anders."

               " _Nathaniel._ "

               "Is there a reason you called?"

               "Yeah, I needed a ride but you were in the bathroom."

               "Where are you now? I'll come get you."

               "Someone already beat you to it; I'm almost there. Tell Velanna Anders says hello."

               He hung up with a smirk just as they pulled up in front of the Gnawed Noble.

               "Sorry about that."

               "Happens," Karl said. "This is where I leave you. Do I get a kiss for my trouble?"

               Anders unbuckled, shaking his head. "Maybe if you didn't smell like a hamburger."

               "I do _not_!" He laughed. "But," he pointed to the empty cup in Anders' hand, "what do you say I take you out for a real drink sometime next week?"

               And for the third time that night Anders felt his stomach twisting, and his mouth moving faster than his brain.

               "I'd like that."

 


End file.
